


What a good boy am I

by Askellie (NadaNine)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Belly Kink, Daddy Kink, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Force-Feeding, M/M, Mommy Kink, Multi, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Stuffing, Underfell Asgore, Underfell Sans, Underfell Toriel - Freeform, simulated incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Underfell Queen has returned to the castle, and Asgore is willing to indulge her every whim to encourage her to stay. What Toriel really wants is a child who won't be able to leave her like all the others. </p>
<p>Sans regrets ever making friends with the woman beyond the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a good boy am I

Sans gently cracked his eyes open, keeping his body absolutely still and relaxed, feigning sleep. The crack under the door was still dark. Good; that meant the servants weren’t yet awake to relight the sconces in the corridor. It was early enough that he might be able to sneak out of the castle unnoticed. Stilling his breathing, he began to inch very carefully towards the edge of the mattress, every sense attuned to the soft, deep breathing behind him.

Closer…closer…a soft sigh interrupted the steady rhythm of his bedmate, and Sans froze. He carefully counted to twenty, listening for anything untoward, but it seemed the sound had been nothing more than the natural murmur of the settling dreamer. He wriggled a little closer to freedom and carefully began redistributing his weight so as not to create any obvious disturbance as he eased over the side of the bed and onto the floor.

He stayed crouched for another minute, braced for discovery, but all was silent. He couldn’t even hear the distant echo of footsteps which might herald the morning change of the guard, or some maid on an early errand. He dared to start moving towards the door, wincing at the soft scrape of bone on stone as he moved. He wished he had socks or some sort of footwear to muffle the noise, but his sneakers had been taken away right at the beginning. He was pretty sure he’d never see them again.

With ten feet between himself and freedom, he dared to believe he might make it. In his mind he was already planning the rest of his escape route. He’d have to creep to the end of the hallway, but after that he could make a break for it and run down the stairs whose curved architecture was good at muffling sound. If he crossed through the east courtyard he’d be able to use the servant’s corridor behind the kitchens, which should be empty at this early hour. The side door opened out into the training yard near the guardhouse, but from experience he knew the King’s guard were mostly spoiled upstarts and drunkards. Most of them would be drowsing at their posts, and those who weren’t might not recognise him in the dark. They could mistake him for a page out to collect goods from the pre-morning markets, or another guard sneaking out for a bit of fun.

He was practically home free!

Beaming at his success, Sans successfully crossed the last few steps and put his hand on the door knob, twisting with utmost delicacy. He turned the handle and…huh. It didn’t give way. With a quiet pang of anxiety he wound it back the other way, trying to keep the click of the shifting mechanism as quiet as possible. Shit, why wasn’t it working? He tugged harder and winced as the door gave an ominous rattle, but full blown dread was starting to set in. Was the door locked? Was it jammed? What the fuck?!

And then he felt it; the soft heat of magic woven through the door. There was a barrier spell on it. Shit! His thoughtless yanking was bound to have reverberated through the delicate field holding the portal closed, and surely enough there was a shift of cloth and a squeak of the mattress as the previously sleeping figure on the bed roused at the intrusion.

“My child? What are you doing out of bed?” Toriel asked, her voice fogged with sleep, but there was a low, alarming note that immediately made Sans break out in a fearful sweat.

He feigned nonchalance, turning back towards the Queen. “Oh uh…I was just hungry. I was gonna head to the kitchens and _mustard_ up a midnight snack. You want anything?”

The pun wasn’t his best – desperation didn’t inspire his creativity – but it had the desired affect and a tinkling snort of laughter reached his ears. Crisis averted. If she was amused, she wasn’t likely to descend into one of her deranged mood swings.

“Oh my, did you not eat enough at dinner? I noticed you didn’t have much appetite,” she said with such sincere kindness Sans almost felt bad for deceiving her, except that the moment she moved to get up from the bed it was hard to feel anything but sheer dread.

He resisted the urge to back up fearfully against the door. There was nowhere to run anyway. “Yeah, I uh…wasn’t feeling so great. But I’m better now, so-”

“Then let me cook for you!” Toriel enthused. In the low light of the bedroom her eyes were positively aflame with glee. Sans smothered a whimper. “I have the most spectacular recipe for snail pie. It’s extremely good for you! I’m sure that will help you recover in no time. You do like snails, do you not?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, slumping slightly and trying not to look defeated. After a moment he realised she was giving him that intense, expectant look, and he forcibly swallowed his pride. “Thanks…Mom.”

* * *

The pie was enormous, embellished lovingly with a decorative crust and even a little swirling snail pattern across its surface. Sans stared at it in trepidation, hands fisting in the oversized sleeves of the striped pyjamas he was forced to wear. The pair of cooks that the queen had booted from the kitchen had given him strange looks, no doubt able to tell that despite his small stature and the distinctive markings on his clothes, he wasn’t actually a child. He’d have ripped them off in a heartbeat if he could, decency be damned, but he’d already learned it was a very bad idea to make Toriel unhappy and what she seemed to take the most pleasure in was treating him as if he were still a babybones.

“Doesn’t it smell delicious?” she cooed at him, cutting an enormous slice and serving it on the plate in front of him. Sans eyed it dubiously. The inside was a mushy green-brown colour with the distinctive slippery coils of snail bodies packed up against each other.

“Yeah,” he said, and truthfully it did smell pretty okay. A tart, savoury smell that did tentatively arouse the curiosity of his appetite, though he hadn’t been all that hungry to begin with. Still, this was much better than provoking her curiosity about his attempt to breach her sealed door.

He hadn’t even noticed her placing the wards, but the theft of his magic had sapped his usual sharp perception. Fuck, someone must have tipped her off the last time he’d tried to sneak out. Now how was he going to check in with Papyrus to make sure his brother didn’t start tearing apart the underground looking for him?

…crap, there was that expectant look again. Sans kept forgetting. He dredged up what he hoped was a convincing smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

She smiled warmly at him, patting the top of his skull. “You’re such a good boy. Go on, eat up!”

Knowing better than to make her ask twice, he picked up the fork and cut a cautious mouthful from the tip of the slice before putting it into his mouth. The taste was distinctly unfamiliar, and the texture was a little chewy in a way that wasn’t entirely reassuring, but the taste was actually pretty good. It was warm and savoury, with a thick sauce that helped disguise the sliminess he imagined he’d have found without it. He glanced up for her approval and, under her watchful gaze, made quick work of the rest of the slice. He wouldn’t dare try his luck again today, but maybe he could tempt her back to bed with him and he could try and come up with another plan while she slept. If she was barring the door now, he’d have to find a way out the window…or maybe convince her to nap with him in some other room with more exits.

“Was it good?” Toriel asked him, her strange, manic eyes fixed on him far too intensely for comfort.

He nodded, taking his time to chew the last mouthful slowly so maybe he wouldn’t have to thank her again. Calling her ‘Mom’ was even more discomforting than wearing the stripes she insisted on. She beamed in pleasure as he finally swallowed. “Yeah, it was great. I’m feeling much better now, so-”

“Good!” she interrupted, reaching for the pie again. “If one slice made you feel good, I’m sure a second slice will make you feel even better.”

Sans froze staring at his Queen and not at all liking the formidable glint in her eye. Fuck, damnit, he’d fucked up after all…or perhaps she was testing him again. She might be crazier than a barrel of weasels, but Toriel was still discomfortingly astute at times, and Sans had underestimated her more than once.

“I’m not really-” She put the new slice on his plate and Sans looked down at it uneasily. “-hungry.”

“Growing boys need to eat,” she insisted, scooting closer to him so that her body was flush against his own. Sans blanched, forcing himself not to flinch away, letting her soft paws pet against his back. “Here, let me.”

She picked up the fork herself and levelled it towards his mouth. Sans briefly, recklessly, contemplated the odds of fighting her on it, but she was physically much stronger than he was and a Boss monster besides. He didn’t stand a chance. Reluctantly he opened his mouth and let her feed him the morsel on the fork.

It seemed to please her immensely – a small mercy – but when he tried to take the fork back for himself she swatted his hands away with a deranged giggle.

“No, dear one, let me,” she said, loading the fork up again, and Sans resigned himself. He opened and chewed automatically, avoiding her gaze and futilely trying to keep the humiliated flush off his face. He ate quickly, hoping his compliance would appease her, but after the final bite she reached once again for the pie dish and cut another slice.

Quiet horror was starting to sink in. She wasn’t going to stop until the pie was gone.

Fuck dignity. He turned to her, eyes wide and beseeching. “Hey, Mom…I’m really full, I don’t think-”

“ _You will eat your dinner_ ,” she said in a voice as cold as steel, making him squeak in alarm and try to writhe away from her, but he was quickly caught up in her soft embrace. “Oh my child, I’m sorry to raise my voice. I’m just worried about you. You seemed so listless and tired yesterday. I’m sure you must not be eating enough.”

Her nuzzling was probably meant to reassure him, but Sans couldn’t stop the sensation of his soul pounding wildly in his chest. He wanted to tell her that he was listless and tired _every_ day, and that it was hard to eat the rich, indulgent meals of the castle without thinking mournfully of his brother’s earnestly burned spaghetti. Papyrus had finally been promoted – that was the one and only good thing to come out of this miserable mess – but that just meant he was at more risk than ever, finally in a position of power that would garner him actual enemies and backstabbing friends. Sans couldn’t help but worry, wishing he could be around to watch his brother’s back, but he wasn’t allowed to _leave_. Asgore demanded Sans stay to keep the Queen appeased now that she’d finally returned, and even without that hanging over his head, trying to escape from Toriel’s watchful, maternal eye was practically impossible. He’d only managed to sneak out a handful of times to find a phone and give his bro a call, but he didn’t dare leave for long. Papyrus’s new status was conditional, and Sans didn’t doubt he wouldn’t be the only one punished if he made the Queen despair that she’d lost yet another child.

Yet another forkful of pie was guided up to his mouth. Sans shut his eyes and forced himself to take it, chewing slowly. In contrast to the first two times, now that he knew the scope of her wrath, he was going to need as much time as possible to cope with the excess of magical food. It wouldn’t be so bad if Toriel had been a poor cook, but her pie recipe seemed to be especially infused with the familiar, warm touch of her magic. It was nearly too much for his body to take, particularly now that he no longer had an outlet for his own abundant magical stores.

Any excess magic he carried that couldn’t be contained in his soul always tried to find an outlet through his physical form. It concentrated, like a precipitate out of a solution in soft fleshy globules that clung to his bones the way flesh might, most of it naturally finding its way to the empty span between his ribcage and his pelvis. Sometimes it filled him with comfort to have it there, knowing that unlike other monsters whose bodies would reject any excess, usually in a messy, unpleasant fashion, Sans had a means to carry around a little extra in case he ever needed it in a pinch.

This was not that kind of situation, however. The cumbersome weight of magic converted from each mouthful settled heavily across his hips. It was forming far more quickly than usual – a testament to the quality of Toriel’s cooking, and by the time he’d slowly chewed his way through half of the enormous pie he was starting to feel an aching stretch where the growing paunch was straining to fit. Part of it had crept up into his ribcage, wedging itself into the cavity and putting a concerning compression on his breathing. The lower half sat uncomfortably over his pelvis, some of it spilling over the pubic mound and applying a very distracting sort of pressure he really didn’t want to think too hard about. He tried to discreetly adjust it, but there really wasn’t anywhere for it to go except outwards, spilling over his lap.

He vainly hoped maybe Toriel wouldn’t notice, but one of her large paws had circled around his back and was now resting firmly on the side of the bulge. At first she did nothing more than hold him there, her paw occasionally sweeping down his side in gentle strokes of assurance, but as the bubble of magic began to expand he could feel her amusement as she playfully squished it in her grip. It was much more elastic than flesh would be, easy to roll and mould in her hand, but the level of discomfort was about the same. Each squeeze made his breath hitch, the magic agitating in displeasure and building up a tight discomfort right in his soul. It made the growing pressure over his pelvis all the more unbearable.

“To-…M-mom, please,” he begged, squirming against her side, trying to pin her with the beseeching stare of his eye-sockets. Her knew she liked them. Their size made them endearing in the childish way she was disturbingly fond of. Every so often he could use a good wide-eyed stare to his advantage and she would become completely distracted, her overwhelming urge to placate him overriding her strange, whimsical temper, but today she only nuzzled him, licking the side of his cheek.

“Keep going, dear one,” she purred, holding another forkful of pie up to his mouth. He had to vehemently fight down his nausea. He was pretty sure he’d never held this much magic in his entire life, and the combination of the sheer physical weight of it and the fizzling energy of raw magic inside him was making him feel extremely conflicted. On one hand, he felt clumsy and bloated, with all the grace and manoeuvrability of a wet sack of cement. It was a dangerously lethargic feeling that set off faint warnings in his primal brain, the one that kept him ready for any possible threat and held very real concern overToriel’s heavy warmth at his side. On the other hand, the sheer concentration of the magic he was holding was nearly euphoric. He felt empowered, energised, and frankly a little delirious trying to contain it all.

He tried to calm himself with a few deep breaths, and found that the strange high was just enough to counter the discomfort. He opened his mouth again, finding it easier this time to close his teeth around the fork and chew mechanically. It was easier not to think about it and just let his body continue on auto-pilot, focusing instead on the soothing backdrop of Toriel’s voice telling him what a good boy he was and how healthy he would be. Her positive encouragement was the only thing that kept him going up until the last slice, but once there his stomach started to revolt again. He could feel all the compressed magic quivering, desperate to escape. For a moment he entertained the amusingly horrific image that the skin of the bubble might not be enough to contain it, and he might very literally burst at the seams.

“Just a little more,” Toriel cooed, pressing the fork to his teeth more insistently. He hadn’t felt ready to fight her over it when they’d started the ordeal, and he felt even less like it now that his body was vibrating with tension. It felt like there was no room in him for anything else, not even air, but somehow he managed to draw a shallow gasp and choked down on the last few mouthfuls. The room seemed to be spinning around him. He was pretty sure he must have quadrupled in weight despite the physical improbability of gaining more mass than the pie itself had possessed.

“There you go! All done!” Toriel beamed, seeming honestly pleased with him.

Sans tried to shoot a weak smile at her, but the expression wouldn’t stay fixed on his face. He hurt, a heavy, tender ache over the stretched skin of his new stomach. He whined, curling protectively around the delicate bulge only to have Toriel pick him up and clutch him tightly in her arms. The abrupt movement and unexpected pressure made his gut hitch unpleasantly, and for a moment he had to fight off another swell of nausea and the alarming urge to hurl.

“Good boy,” Toriel approved, and Sans could only cling meekly and hope she’d be gentle. Her large paws stroked his back, and this time he couldn’t completely resist the urge to melt into the offered comfort. She cradled him gently, smoothing out her skirts as she rose from her seat and began carrying him back to their rooms. “Mother’s going to take good care of you.”

He slumped exhausted against the crook of neck. God, he was so uncomfortable. It was a good thing she seemed inclined to carry him, because he doubted he’d have been able to walk anywhere. He’d have to wait until the burbling magic started to settle properly before he could start planning again, and hope she didn’t feel inspired to make any more pies in the meantime.

* * *

The worst part of his new incarceration was that, in spite of Toriel’s sometimes deranged moodswings, it wasn’t all terrible. As her new beloved child, Sans was spoiled beyond anything he could have hoped for in his old life. He didn’t have to work, he didn’t have any responsibilities save keeping the Queen happy. He could lie around all damn day and have desserts with every meal (as long as he brushed his teeth and ate his vegetables when ordered to) and most of what he had to endure in return was simply the humiliation of being treated like a kid.

If that had been all it was, maybe he could have just confessed to his brother and learned to live with it.

Toriel spent the rest of the morning in their shared room, reading in her great, comfortable chair in front of the fireplace with Sans nestled across her lap. At first she’d read to him, and though he was a little annoyed at her at the pretence – as if he’d never eagerly absorbed the most demanding physics textbooks the Royal Library or devoured the old Royal Scientist’s dissertations on the workings of the core – she was reading a joke book which made it more like she was telling him the jokes than mocking his literary comprehension. Settled against her, his stomach still gurgling but slowly settling from its previous abuse, he found himself snickering frequently at some of the truly awful humor in it, and eventually he was so damn comfortable he fell into a light doze.

Those were almost the moments he hated the most; the ones where he realised he could easily learn to like his new life.

The truly worst moments, however…well, those didn’t leave him with any conflicted feelings whatsoever.

He roused blearily to the feeling of something pressing against his teeth, and caught halfway in a familiar dream of lazing at Grillby’s and chugging back mustard at the bar and the all-too-recent trauma from her pie. He reflexively opened his mouth and suckled gently. The habit was instinctively soothing, and he might not have noticed anything amiss if Toriel hadn’t chuckled softly, wriggling the protrusion that turned out not to be the spout of a condiment bottle, but one of her fingers. She pressed the digit in deeper, curling it against the roof of his mouth, making him startle and splutter more fully awake. He managed to catch himself before biting down on the intrusion, shooting her a bewildered glare.

Her returning smirk was not reassuring in the slightest. “You slept so long, my child, I think it’s time you got some exercise, hmm?”

A second finger joined the first, stretching his jaw and coaxing his tongue into existence by teasing expertly along the floor of his mouth. Sans made an embarrassing gurgling sound as they plumbed deeper, stroking the magical appendage and making him salivate profusely. She scissored her fingers, threatening to make him choke as he was forced to gape further to accommodate her. The calloused pads of her paws felt foreign but incredibly stimulating against the sensitive interior of his skull.

He squirmed helplessly on her lap, knowing what was coming but still flushing with mortification as she finally pulled out of his wet, panting mouth and deftly hitched open the bodice of her gown. Even now, having his Queen expose herself to him in such a fashion was immediately overwhelming. He might have been flattered by the honour if not for the fact that he was still nestled in the crook of her arm and wearing stripes, which just made the whole situation uncomfortably perverse in a way he couldn’t reconcile.

He never had to wonder why the kid had decided to make their way out of the Ruins as swiftly as possible.

She straightened her posture, leaning back in the chair as she exposed one heavy bosom, lifting it with her slick fingers and using her other hand to press against the back of his skull.

“Come now,” she purred, her claws clicking delicately across his nape. “Pleasure your Queen.”

That, at least, was an order without nearly so many perturbing overtones. He took a breath and leaned down, nuzzling briefly against the fur of her cleavage as his mouth sought out the nub of her nipple. It was fur-less around the teat, and he delicately closed his teeth around it before applying gentle pressure. Suckling wasn’t really a natural impulse for skeletons, but his years of experienced condiment drinking served him well in this instance. He let his tongue circle around the pert, heated peak, drawing out a delightful little gasp from Toriel that he might have truly enjoyed under better circumstances. Her voice rumbled low in her chest, thrumming against his skull as he bent pliantly in her grip and sucked harder.

“Am I interrupting?”

Sans started, accidentally biting down and drawing out a breathy yelp from the Queen, but from the pitch of the sound he could tell he hadn’t truly wounded her. He sat up stiffly, his face contorting in mortification, and he didn’t need to lift his eyes from the floor to know who had interrupted them. He could see the gleaming gold of the King’s armour glinting in the firelight.

“Not at all,” Toriel said slyly, petting the top of Sans’s skull and giving her husband a fanged smile. “In fact, perhaps you would like to join us? Our little one has seemed quite restless today. Perhaps he feels bereft of attention?”

“Is that so?”

Sans shuddered at Asgore’s deep, resonant voice, but carefully kept himself still as he was easily lifted from Toriel’s arms by the King’s mighty hands. They easily engulfed the sides of his ribcage, making Sans feel positively tiny in his hold. He held the skeleton up for inspection, leaving his legs dangling uselessly several feet off the ground as he was scrutinised. He could almost feel the tangible weight of the King’s glower, not to mention the must more literal weight of the magic gathered around his paunch. It had settled a little since that morning, now leaving him feeling less like a shaken can of soda and more like an extremely unwieldy dead-weight.

“I hear the two of you were awake quite early this morning,” Asgore mused, his grip tightening incrementally, making Sans squeak pitifully as his chest was compressed. “Did he disturb you, my Queen?”

The ominous warning in his tone made Sans’s soul pound in his chest. He wheezed for breath, fighting the urge to struggle.

“Don’t frighten him,” Toriel murmured, demurely fastening her blouse once again. “I’m sure he didn’t _mean_ to.”

Sans violently shook his head in agreement. He still wasn’t quite sure how much Asgore’s tolerance of him was out of concession to Toriel’s madness and how much was his own appreciation of Sans’s  new servitude to the Royal family. Either way, he wasn’t going to risk the King’s own notorious temper directing itself at him. His small acts of truancy had been made to be as discreet and avoidant of the King as possible, though somehow word always seemed to reach him, and Sans was willing to bet he wasn’t as receptive to Sans’s protestations of innocence as Toriel was.

“Even so, I believe some form of apology is in order,” Asgore declared, and the brief glimpse Sans dared to take at his face showed that the King’s expression was one of self-satisfied amusement. “Time to earn your keep, little one.”

He was set back on the floor and didn’t even bother trying to get his feet under him. Even though he was no match for Asgore or even Toriel’s height when standing, the King especially preferred to see him kneeling. He was pushed unceremoniously up to Toriel’s shins, finding himself trapped between the two looming monarchs. He glanced up, first into Toriel’s bright, mirthful expression, and then back at the King who firmly nudged Sans with a boot planted in his spine.

“Lift my Lady’s skirts,” Asgore demanded, and Sans hurried to comply with shaking hands. The voluminous velvet fabric gave way to Toriel’s long, shapely legs, the fur beneath her clothing always a shade or two darker than that on her hands and face, but with a strange silvery glint to it. He stared at the relatively safe sight of her kneecap, not daring to go any further without instruction.

“Really now,” Toriel said with a warning huff. “ _Your_ Lady? Not quite yet, _My_ Lord.”

“Of course,” Asgore said, not meek but contrite. There were moments when it was obvious how much the Kink was still under his ex-wife’s thrall. “But…maybe someday. And in the meantime, we shall care for our child together, shall we not?”

Asgore smiled at Toriel, and then turned his judging gaze down on Sans who did his very best to sink into the carpet. Sans’s presence was perhaps the most integral part that held together the King and Queen’s marriage. In a warped way, one could almost imagine he was doing an important service to the kingdom by giving them something to bond over…if the actual reality of it had been less disturbing, he might have been okay with it.

Unfortunately there was nothing remotely paternal about the broad, clawed hand that grabbed him by the back of the skull and pressed his face unerringly between Toriel’s soft thighs. She parted them for him readily enough so that at least he wasn’t smothered in fur before he reached the apex of her legs. His nasal ridge was thrust up against the silk of her undergarments, and immediately he was overwhelmed by the smell of her, sweet and musky.

It would be worse if Asgore had to talk him through this bit – it did truly shameful things to his composure whenever the King of all monsters spoke vulgarities aloud – so Sans hesitantly nuzzled up against her. His hearing was a little muffled by the position, but he thought he heard a sigh as she leaned back, exposing more of herself to him, and he pressed his mouth against the mound of her sex and let his teeth graze against the lace that covered her crotch. That sent a little shudder down her legs, and he couldn’t help but feel a small swell of gratification.

He rubbed against her more insistently, nibbling carefully at her covered lips, this time drawing out a trilling moan from the Queen that was immediately followed up by an answering growl from Asgore. The deep, possessive snarl made Sans freeze instinctively, wondering if the King’s temper had finally snapped despite the fact that it was his hand that was still pinning Sans’s skull in place. He felt claws pricking at the nape of his neck and shuddered in the brief but poignant terror that he was about to be dusted, but instead of bones cracking he heard the distinctive sound of fabric tearing and felt his clothing being literally shredded from his body. What little relief he might have had about the hated stripes finally being torn away was entirely negated by the anxious dread of exposure in front of the Kingdom’s two monarchs.

He couldn’t see anything in the darkness of Toriel’s bunched up skirts, but he heard the clank of armoured shins hitting the floor and guessed Asgore must have knelt down behind him. His weight pressed heavily onto Sans’s back as he leaned over the small skeleton, practically crushing him as he exchanged some sort of gesture with the Queen – something that sounded soft and wet and made her murmur in pleasure. There was a damp stain forming on the front of her undergarments, and he wasn’t sure if it was condensation from his nervous sweat or her own fluids gathering in readiness.

It occurred to him that he should really get the fabric out of the way before the Queen expressed her displeasure, but his balance was abruptly thrown off as Asgore grabbed his femurs and yanked carelessly upwards, making him squawk in alarm and leaving him suspended slightly above the floor. He flailed for a moment, trying to find balance with his hands braced on Toriel’s lap. All concentration and co-ordination was promptly shot to hell when he felt his pelvis dragged into alignment with Asgore’s hips. The blatant bulge in Asgore’s trousers was rubbed crudely against his coccyx, and he humiliated himself with the shaky noise the King managed to draw out of him.

Patience was not one of Asgore’s strong points. Sans barely had time to brace himself for what was coming, let alone have any chance of arousing himself to help negate the oncoming pain. He felt Asgore’s grip shift long enough to free his engorged length, easily holding Sans’s slight weight with one hand, before readjusting his grip to effectively pull the skeleton down hard, impaling him brutally on his cock.

Sans screeched, scrabbling madly, clawing at Toriel’s thighs in a way that made her buck against his mouth instead of making any effort to assist him. Asgore’s cock had a girth to match the rest of his massive stature, and even with more preparation Sans often had to struggle to fit it through his pelvic inlet. This time the penetration was harsh and unlubricated, and worst of all, its passage immediately met the resistance of the unprocessed magic that still clung to his midsection.

For a moment Sans dreaded that the King’s forceful thrust might actually puncture it, and envisioned a horrible, messy death by magical exsanguination, but mercifully the skin of the bubble was thick and quite malleable. It simply warped around Asgore’s shaft, making Sans wail in helpless protest, but the added pressure around his cock seemed to delight the King. He drew out and thrust in again eagerly, ignoring the grating friction of skin on bone and groaning long and loudly. It was rare to hear Asgore losing the fine threads of his control, but whatever pleasure he was drawing out of Sans’s body seemed far greater than their usual fare.

Toriel’s accompanying cries were no doubt an encouragement. Sans couldn’t say he was making any concious effort to pleasure her even though the demanding grip on the back of his skull tried to compel him to. He was far too overcome by pain and the struggle to breathe to comply, but his struggling and senseless scratching seemed to work almost better than some of the more deliberate methods he’d tried before. He distantly heard her voice peaking, hips bucking unevenly against his face, and then felt himself being deafened and smothered between her thighs as she shuddered with the unmistakable throes of climax.

Trapped in between her powerful legs, he had nothing to draw his attention away from the vicious pounding his pelvis was taking, and could feel choked sobs trying to force their way out of his chest. Each impact slammed into his gut from below, agitating the settled magic once again and setting alight sparks of foreign sensation that were somehow both incredibly uncomfortable and bizarrely stimulating. He felt dizzy again, though that might have also been from the lack of oxygen. He was morbidly pondering whether they’d be testing the claim that skeletons don’t need to breathe to live before finding himself finally eased out from under Toriel’s skirts. His upper half, limp, gasping, and twitching like a fish out of water, was dropped back into Toriel’s lap. Immediately her hands were on him, petting and soothing and stroking encouragingly.

Access to air only made him noisily incoherent and not any more clear-headed, but Toriel seemed to find appreciation for it. His face felt wet, from her fluids, from his own gaping mouth, from the tears a particularly painful thrust managed to squeeze from his eyesockets, and she tilted his head at a nearly painful angle to eagerly lap at the mess.

“Such a good boy,” she purred in approval even while he sobbed against her mouth. Her hand pressed firmly against his upper back, and Sans felt the bones tingle. “Let me reward you, dear one.”

Her magic, hot and searing, pulsed through his soul, able to reach him even without drawing his core out completely – an entirely unfair advantage possessed only by Boss monsters. Sans convulsed; the heat didn’t burn in the usual way, but it set him alight all the same, flushing him with yet another pulse of magic just as Asgore’s cock pounded into him again. The dual sensation of being so completely filled, physically and magically, made his soul burst over with an orgasm that was almost too intense to be described as pleasure. It was devastating, unbearable, and brilliant as a supernova, completely overwhelming all his other senses.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to blink hazily awake some indefinite time later, his face still planted in Toriel’s lap, but the rest of his body curled against her legs. He felt positively drenched with fluids. There was a considerable puddle beneath him that must have belonged to the King’s climax, and more of it was cooling over his pelvis, legs and belly. A dull ache resonated up his spine, warning him that he would likely be paying for Asgore’s rough handling for days to come.

The King himself was still present, calmly making adjustments to his clothing to hide any indiscreet stains. Toriel chuckled at him, sounding breathless and content.

“Ahh, must you return so soon?”

“My duties, I’m afraid,” Asgore rumbled, and to his credit, he sounded honestly disappointed. “Even with your return, my Queen, there is much to be done to placate the populace.

“Besides…” He cast a sly glance down at Sans, who reacted a moment too slow to make himself unobtrusive by feigning sleep. “I think we have tired your little one.”

“Indeed,” Toriel said with a laugh. “I should put him to bed. I am sure he’s learned his lesson about rousing his mother too early.”

She patted his skull, and Sans shuddered, wondering if he would have to put his plans to keep in touch with Papyrus on hold indefinitely. It seemed like a distinctly bad idea to push his luck with the two monarchs.

“I am sure,” Asgore agreed dryly, leaning down and nuzzling against Toriel’s muzzle. The gesture was tenderly returned, and the Queen’s acceptance must have buoyed the King’s mood because he even deigned to give Sans a brief pat as well, albeit one more suited to that of a loyal hound than of a ward. “You should get some rest as well, my Queen.”

He left with a flourish of his cloak that left Toriel staring after him with fondness before she turned her attention back to Sans. “Oh my, you really are quite a mess. Come, little one. I shall draw you a bath, and then perhaps we shall take a nap?”

Sans almost groaned in relief, and for once he could endure Toriel’s care-taking and fussing since otherwise he’d have to settle for passing out in the puddle beneath him. He stayed still and pliant as he was lifted meekly into her arms, shivering a little when the touch of her hands reminded him of that final flush of heated magic. Thankfully he dropped into an exhausted doze before he had to think about it too hard.


End file.
